In the Belly of the Beast
by Neriad13
Summary: Treavor's brothers torment him constantly, making his existence miserable and Stepmother has not a single idea, nor interest in what's going on. After they push him far enough to fall into the Void, he comes face to face with a question: Does he truly want them dead?


"Such a fine day, is it not, dear brother?"

"Oh, most assuredly, dear brother."

"Such a shame it would be, were I to tip this chair into the pond."

"But however else would we know whether poor Treavor is well enough to swim?"

"Too true, dear brother, too true. Might I suggest filling his pockets with decorative stones first?"

"Ah! But of course. He'll never get his strength back if he doesn't learn how to carry a little weight."

"A fine stone, this one."

"Yes indeed. Treavor, you _must_ move your hands out of the way or else how shall we reach your pockets?"

"Bad form, that, disregarding your dear brothers' kindness. Here, let me show you how to behave prop"-

"Boys! The carriage is here. Bring your brother along."

"Yes, Mother!"

"Yes, Mother!"

"Such kind boys you are, for taking your brother into the garden when he's too ill to walk himself. Shall we stop for a frozen confection on the way back?"

"Oh yes, Mother."

"Most assuredly."

He had stopped crying out for help long ago.

It only made more spiders appear in his bed later (or toads or wriggling half-dead fish or snakes. They weren't picky about what wandered into their fish traps and garden snares). Of course, his stepmother had never once believed that Morgan and Custis were anything except the most loving of brothers anyway. They were exceedingly skilled at covering their tracks and deflecting all blame to poor neurasthenic, delirious Treavor.

Custis made sure to knock his head against the carriage door as he helped him inside. Treavor had bitten his tongue when he'd done so and tasted blood, but made not a sound or any indication that it had hurt.

If he kept his face blank, if he gave them not a single yelp, not a single indication that the things they did affected him at all - then maybe, just _maybe_, they'd get bored and give it up.

He could hope, at least.

The footman closed the carriage door. It suddenly felt horribly claustrophobic inside, with Morgan on one side of him and Custis leering at him from the other. Stepmother sat opposite, her voluminous skirts that were all the rage this season among the Dunwall elite taking up nearly all available leg room.

"Look, Treavor!" she said, turning the newspaper she was reading around to show him, "Here it is."

**_THE PANDYSSIAN CURE!_** blared the headline, **_A WHALE OF A TREATMENT_**

Below was a cartoonishly drawn carcass of a beached whale, inside of which were sitting, among others, a dainty lady with a parasol, a stern-looking Watch officer and three children who looked much too ecstatic to be doing what they were.

He read on as the carriage bumped over the cobblestone roads.

_A whale of a cure-all has taken Dunwall by storm!_

"_It cured my gout of 50 years."_

"_I haven't had a single nervous attack since!"_

"_I thought my son would never walk again. I was amazed to be proven wrong!"_

_These are only a sampling of the many wonders performed at South Murkstream Beach by the esteemed Bottle Street Whaling Company, now offering a new exclusive package including dinner and a show.*_

"_It all started as a joke, really." Mr. Laranthac, the esteemed owner of the company, states, "Me and my mates were dead drunk and strolling outside Slaughterhouse Row when we come upon this discarded whale carcass. One thing leads to another and next thing I know, I'm being triple-hound-dared to climb inside the thing. Naturally, my honor could not let such a challenge go uanswered."_

"_So I climb inside and spend the night stuck in the beast's rotting belly with my mates jeering at me from outside. But the joke was on them - I emerged with my bum knee set more right than it's been in years. That was when I realized that I could make mo...er...help people...that I could go into business and spread this revolutionary treatment through the Isles."_

_Countless citizens of Dunwall have tried the cure and emerged the picture of wellness! Why not try it for yourself today?_

_The Academy of Natural Philosophy declined to comment._

_*Spaces are limited. Diners are advised to eat after completing the treatment. No refunds._

He handed the newspaper back.

It wasn't a experience that he was particularly looking forward to. But he was reaching the point where he'd do anything to fix this pain in his chest - anything so that he wouldn't be so winded if he so much as tried to walk across the garden himself.

Stepmother had been talking about how fashionable it was becoming all week. First it was the Brimsleys, then it was the Whites and then she became determined to show her face at South Murkstream Beach before the Boyles could get to it.

She tittered excitedly all through the carriage ride, about this family and that fortune and how jealous they'd all be when she had gotten in on a trend before them.

Treavor dozed, blocking out most of the chatter. Or he would have, had Morgan not been covertly pinching him the entire time.

He woke up from his half-doze with a jolt as the carriage came to a stop. Bright sunlight streamed in when the footman opened the door. The bottom ruffle of Stepmother's dress went up his nose as she inched her way out.

Naturally, Custis made as though he were going to drop Treavor flat on his face as he helped him out. Treavor braced himself - but was only made to look more foolish when he jerked him the other way.

Once he was situated in his trusty chair and well within the protective gaze of Stepmother, he let his guard down a bit and took in his surroundings.

It was a nice enough beach. Nothing like the white sands of Serkonos and not at all as warm, but fine enough for an afternoon stroll.

Vendors were situated in colorful booths all around the path leading to their destination. There were fried hagfish, Morley eggs, quite a bit of cheap-looking jewelry and a startlingly fine array of ladies' fans.

For a time, he was lost in the sights and sounds of the fair and the smells of greasy food. But as they drew closer, he began to smell _it_.

It was at first a sort of undertone of rot. Not at all unusual, based on some of the fairs he'd been to in the past. Carnies and travelling vendors were not exactly known to be the cleanest of folk. But here, instead of remaining an undertone, it only got stronger.

All thoughts of food raced from his brain at the scent of it. He wished he had some smelling salts or a little pomade that he could hold to his nose.

He caught sight of a vendor selling a selection of exactly that, but before he could say something, they were already past it.

At the end of the row, there was an elegant restaurant. Fine people ate with silver cutlery on top of spotless white tablecloths. Immaculately dressed waiters flitted between the tables and the swinging doors of the kitchen. It would have been a scene out of Dunwall's most fashionable district, if not for the bank of whale oil powered fans directing the foul odor away from the noses of the diners.

And there, just beyond the next dune, was the whale.

He'd never seen one up close before. It didn't look at all like the drawings in his school books had led him to believe. He supposed rot changed every creature. It was morbidly fascinating to look at.

"Oh! Lady Pendelton! What a fine surprise!"

A woman in an elegant white suit was walking toward them, trailed by a trio of immaculately put together little girls.

The Boyles.

"Lady Boyle! How lovely to see you here!"

Stepmother was wearing the biggest, toothiest smile he'd ever seen.

"Likewise, likewise! How are you finding the festivities?"

"Oh, I've seen better. But it's...certainly _interesting_. How is your husband doing? Bedridden, last I'd heard."

"We're here for him. The poor dear really has been having a wretched time with his rheumatism lately. I think the whale may be just the thing. He's bathing now."

She pointed a finger over the dune, a smug smile on her face.

He saw the muscles tighten in Stepmother's jaw. But her voice was not at all strained when she countered.

"Well, _we're_ here for poor little Treavor. The dear has not been himself for _weeks_. We've tried everything - poultices, pills, saunas, hot and cold baths. Electrolysis. I do hope that he feels better after this."

He had no idea what electrolysis was, but was reasonably certain that they hadn't tried that.

"I'm quite sure he will. Would you like to dine with us afterward? It will be ever such a pleasant ev"-

At that moment the leftmost little girl chose to wretch loudly into her handkerchief.

"Waverly!" Lady Boyle snapped, "I'm sorry, Lady Pendelton. We shall have to continue this another time. Ta-ta!"

"All over your _dress_, Waverly?"

Stepmother relaxed as they melted into the crowd.

"That bitch! Excuse my language, boys. Don't tell your father."

"Of course, Mother."

"Not at all, Mother."

They only called her 'Mother' to flatter her. It worked every single time.

"I shall not live this down for a _year_. Well, Treavor, shall we go on?"

Treavor coughed. His eyes were watering.

"We've been thinking, Mother…"

Custis slid to her side like an eel.

"Yes, Mother. About poor Treavor."

Morgan, smiling like a snake.

"We don't think he should go alone. Suppose something happens to him?"

"Suppose he has an attack of the nerves!"

"He'll need his brothers to be there for him."

"Oh, _boys_!"

She snatched them both up in a hug that lifted her skirts to near indecent levels.

"I don't know what I'd do without you two."

Treavor dug his nails into the armrests so deeply that he pulled out a strand of stuffing.

"And up we go!"

The attendant grunted as he hefted Treavor up to the hole that had been cut for him in the side of the beast.

"Now work yourself down. Grab hold of that rib bone - that's a good lad."

It was slimy and warm - like working himself down into a plate of gelatin, if gelatin could be served warm. He could smell it through the clothespin fastened to his nose. The fumes stung his eyes. He swallowed thickly, thankful for once that Morgan had eaten his breakfast pastry and left not a crumb for him.

"Now you just stay put for an hour or so. Call me if you need me. Though I'm sure your brothers will help faster than I could get here."

"Yessir!"

Custis did a mock salute from his side of the rib bone.

"We have nothing but our dear brother's health in mind."

Morgan smiled in a way that indicated pleasantness to the vast majority of those who saw it, but in reality, signaled nothing but mischief.

The attendant smiled in return, his shaggy white beard cracking open to reveal a mouthful of yellow teeth.

"Good boys! Why, I wish I had brothers half as dedicated as you. I'm sure your mother's very proud."

With a wave, he turned his back and began walking away.

_Don't leave me._

The words were on the tip of his tongue, so close to being said that he could almost taste them. It was like there was a bit in his mouth stopping them from being set free. And who held the reins?

His Void-damned brothers.

"Feeling anything, Treavor?"

Custis leaned closer, his thin lips curling into a sneer.

"Yes, dear brother, are you cured yet?"

Morgan turned in his hole so he could face him.

Treavor shook. He could hear his teeth rattling in his head.

"Hmm. I don't think this is doing much for him."

"Yes, brother, I do believe you are correct."

"I think...he needs to go deeper."

"Indeed! The deeper the hole, the stronger the cure."

"How clever you are, dear brother."

"Only as clever as you, dear brother."

"Now then…"

Each of them seized a hand. Treavor tried to strengthen his grip on the rib bone, but it was so slippery...and he was so weak. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't breathe past the clothespin.

"Come now, Treavor. You _must_ let go if you ever expect to be well."

"Don't you want to be well?"

"Treavor…"

They were peeling off his fingers one by one. Slowly, he was sliding inside. It was like being dragged down by an undertow beneath what appeared to be a calm ocean.

Against his steely will to give them _nothing_, hot tears poured down his face.

Custis laughed, a maniacal gleam shining in his eyes.

"Poor Treavor! Don't you know your brothers know best?"

"Trust us, Treavor! We love you, Treavor. You'll grow up strong because of us, Treavor."

He gritted his teeth, a black and desperate rage boiling up inside him.

"_I...hate...you._"

"Ooh! Did you hear _that_, brother?"

"I did indeed, brother!"

"What an awful sentiment."

"To think that it came from our little brother's mouth…"

"I think he needs to spend some time in the hole to sort his feelings out."

"I do believe you are right."

Treavor squeezed his eyes shut.

Morgan peeled away his last finger.

He fell for what felt like a distance greater than the width of the whale. Warm flesh pressed in around him. The clothespin was lost somewhere up above and the full force of the stench permeated every pore of his body. He tried to cry for help, but his mouth was full of liquid, his limbs pinned by the bulk of the dead leviathan.

He was sinking, he was drowning, he was going to die here for real and then _maybe_ Stepmother would get a clue after he was dead.

His feet hit something solid.

It felt as though he were still breathing warm liquid, but the pressure on his chest had ceased.

He opened his eyes.

The clearest blue sky he had ever seen extended for miles in all directions.

He was standing on a grassy plateau, the bleached white bones of the leviathan towering over him. The air was absolutely still. Not a blade of grass moved. Not a single insect chirped.

He took a cautious step forward, half expecting his foot to plunge through the grass, but it was solid enough.

The edge of the plateau - now, that was a different matter entirely. He peered down into a bottomless chasm that went far beyond the limits of his vision. In a fright, he found himself leaning forward, as thought the pit were drawing him in and hurriedly lurched backward, falling safely to the soft grass behind him.

He lay there panting for a moment and looking up at the sky.

The Void. He'd fallen into the Void. The Outsider was going to claim his soul and keep him here forever and make him do his dark bidding and he'd never see his mother or get back to his room or taste another eclair or find out if kissing was less gross than it sounded or sneak sherry from the liquor cabinet or…

Be tormented by his brothers ever again.

He sat up, leaning on his elbows as he considered that last bit.

The beauty of the situation was that it couldn't possibly get any worse. There was an odd sort of freedom in that thought. Ergo...he might as well enjoy what there was to enjoy.

He rose to his feet, feeling lighter than air, not an ache in his body. He ran in circles around the whale bones, his mad laughter echoing across the silent expanse. Eventually, he got brave enough to creep close to the edge again.

On this side of his starting place, there was an island far below. He thought he saw figures on it, but it was impossible to tell from this distance.

It couldn't get any worse, right?

He took a running start and leapt into the empty air.

It was like falling through warm custard. He landed below with a grace that he never would have managed, had he been bound to the normal laws of gravity.

He was in his own garden.

He looked around in shock at the familiar blooms, at the garish pink roses Stepmother so loved, at the pond with its silvery fish, frozen in place. His heart gave him a nasty jolt when he glimpsed the two figures at the far end of it.

An anxious moment passed and he realized that they were as frozen as the rest of the scene. Fear and curiosity mixing in his stomach, he crept closer.

Custis was holding an angry snake by the neck, looking as though he were doing his best to avoid being bitten. Morgan was holding the wire trap, his mouth cracked wide open with laughter at the situation.

Still not entirely trusting that they were going to remain still, he crept forward and slowly, ever so carefully, poked Custis's cheek.

The skin was eerily soft, but lacked the warmth of life. He drew his hand back, a shiver running down his spine.

He wanted nothing so much as to leave the garden.

Outside the garden gate was a sheer drop into the Void. When he tried the door to the house, it, thankfully, opened easily and looked much as he'd left it inside, save for the odd amount of floating teacups over the table at which a frozen facsimile of Stepmother was sitting. She was reading her favorite gossip rag, all but oblivious to the actions of her stepsons just outside the window. Business as usual.

Father's study was empty and the liquor cabinet unlocked. He decided that now was as good a time as ever to get a nip of sherry, but when he tried to pour it, the liquid poured upwards instead of down and settled near the ceiling in floating amber orbs.

With more than a little disappointment, he gave it up and carried on.

The kitchen, the drawing room, the parlor, the good dining room and the everyday dining room - all still, all empty, all exactly as he'd left them. He passed by his brothers' shared bedroom without a second glance. Stepmother's door was locked. The same was true of Father's, across the hall.

And here, at the end of the hall, his own little attic room, its door hanging eticingly open a crack. He ran towards it, a lightness in his steps at the thought of the one place that was uniquely his in this strange world. Perhaps he could take a nap on the bed and wake up in a better place.

But when he threw open the door, he was standing outside.

The cobblestones gleamed with rain and the droplets hung, unmoving, in the air. It was a dreary street corner, as indistinct as any in Dunwall. Up ahead, under a floating streetlight, he saw three figures.

One, hunched over as though he were heaving onto the cobblestones. Another holding the hunched one's cravat out of the way and the third patting his back reassuringly. He walked around to get a look at their faces and -

It was Custis and Morgan. Older, hairier, but with the same squinty eyes, the same bulging foreheads. And the third…

He bent down to look at the hunched one's shadowed face and nearly fell over when he found himself looking into his own green visage.

It was as though the world was shifting under his feet and the sky spinning above him. He stumbled backwards and hardly knowing why, ran as fast as his legs could carry him. The street twisted and turned before him, the landscape a jumble of dream and reality.

Custis and Morgan, sticking his head down a toilet.

The three of them on a river flowing through the air, hoisting a pair of ladies' underwear like a flag.

Custis leering over him with a knife.

A bird nailed to the garden fence by its wings.

Morgan running after a carriage that had splashed the three of them, a look of pure fury on his face.

A wheelchair being tipped into a pond.

And below, far below, on a mat of blood-soaked cushions and silken drapes, his brothers lay, a deep red smile cut into both of their throats.

A sob caught in his throat as he reached out to touch them, his hands trembling, hatred and sorrow going to war in his pounding head.

How many times had he dreamed of strangling them himself? How many ways had he imagined their deaths playing out? And yet, to see it made real before him...it was inexpressibly horrible.

Their blood was warm - warmer than life, hot enough to burn. He withdrew his hand, his fingers shakling, the stain dark against his pale skin.

He felt light-headed. He didn't know if he was going to vomit or pass out. And then, his ears popped.

Something snatched him under the armpit and he was wrenched upward, out of space and time and memory.

"And...there we are! No harm done. I told you he didn't have far to fall."

The air was freezing cold compared to the warmth of where he'd come from, the sand gritty and abrasive on his bare knees. He coughed up something completely unmentionable and tried to wipe his face with a hand that was just as filthy.

"Oh, _thank you_ sir! Our poor little brother...he just couldn't hold on."

Someone seized him around the shoulders and squeezed him tight.

"This illness has been so hard on him. We don't know what we would have done without you."

Treavor opened his eyes and blinked away the layer of slime. The attendant who'd hoisted him up not twenty minutes ago was standing over him with a well-used shepherd's crook. He was blushing cherry-red.

"Aw, really boys, it wasn't that big of a"-

To his horror, he realized that Custis was hugging him.

"Get _off_ of me!"

"Wha"-

He shoved him away, leaving a slimy handprint on his bewildered face.

For a second he lay there panting, reeling with the anticipation of what they'd do to retaliate, but then…

He stood up and started running.

"Treavor!"

"Treavor, I demand you get back here!"

"You're not well!"

"_Treavor!_"

The crash of the waves overwhelmed their voices and the scent of the sea overtook that of the dead whale. He was sure they were right behind him - that they would always be there, snapping at his heels, dragging him down.

But for now, his brothers' cries far away and forgotten, he plunged into the icy sea.

Notes:

The Whale Cure was briefly an actual treatment for rheumatism in turn of the century Australia (but magical whales = more curative powers, right?). The practice being stumbled upon by drunk idiots is also completely true (although there is some evidence that the Aborigines were doing it way before European colonizers thought it was cool). It has also yielded one of the best pieces of (possibly) unintentional comedy in human history.


End file.
